


Conversations Over a Front Seat

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-14
Updated: 2006-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-03 11:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8710108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Parked on the side of the road in a rain storm, the boys' word games take a turn that neither of them is really prepared for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Conversations Over a Front Seat

**Conversations Over a Front Seat**  
**Warning: Wincest**  
**Rating: Over 18**  
Author's Notes: Well, it started off as a funny piece and you know these boys, before you know it, emotional train wreck....enjoy?  
  
* * *   
  
"So what's the weirdest place you've ever had sex?"  
  
It was inevitable, the twist in the conversation. They'd already run through what's your favorite car chase in a movie, food that is greasy, song produced before 1960 and stupidest name for a dog.   
  
The rain that had forced them off the road was lighter now, more of a rhythmic drumming on the roof and less of a 40 days and 40 nights kind of thing. Dean was in the backseat, head to the driver's side, Sam was in the front seat, head to the passenger side – both slumped down with their jackets bunched behind their necks, the thick front seat of the Impala blocking their view of each other.   
  
  
Voices in the dark, in the rain – it was like when they were kids and Dad was gone and they couldn't sleep for fear of wondering if they'd been abandoned or orphaned or if this crazy life was due to continue in a few minutes or a few hours.  
  
"So what's the weirdest place you've ever had sex," Sam repeated.  
  
"Bucksnort, Tennessee." Dean's voice replied.  
  
"Not the weirdest name, the weirdest place like a strange place to actually do it."  
  
"Bucksnort, Tennessee. Dad and I were checking out this body snatching case and I made nice with this luscious redheaded morgue attendant."  
  
"You didn't."  
  
"Horizontal on the slab. It was weird, especially because she wanted me to hold still and play dead."  
  
"Dean."  
  
"And you know me, I'm not exactly mister quiet when it comes to sex."  
  
"Dean."  
  
"But hell, try anything once, you know. Different. Laying there, trying not to move – which, is not all that easy, let me tell you."  
  
"Got it," said Sam.  
  
"Your turn. What's the weirdest place you've ever had sex?"  
  
Sam pulled his knees up so his feet were flat on the seat then adjusted the rolled jacket under his head. "Probably in the kitchen. In a chair in the kitchen."  
  
Silence.  
  
A head popped up over the seat barely silhouetted by the moonlight through the back window. "Are you sure you're my brother? Because that's pathetic, man."  
  
"So, I'm not quite as adventurous as you. I still have my moments."  
  
Dean flopped back down and the car rolled slightly with the movement. "Okay, so what's the kinkiest thing you've ever done?"  
  
"Sex in a chair in the kitchen."  
  
Dean gasped as if he'd been shot through the chest. "You're killing me, pal. You're killing me. Come on, that's crap. Ask me what the kinkiest thing is I've ever done."  
  
"No."  
  
"Come on, you have to ask, rules of the game. Ask."  
  
"No. I don't want to know."  
  
"It was with this girl Wanda in Georgia. Legs like forty miles of trouble and she could throw me across the room without breaking a nail."  
  
"Charming."  
  
"It gets better," said Dean.  
  
"I was afraid it would," said Sam.  
  
"She liked to be in charge, if you know what I mean. And at first, I wasn't so sure about it but man when she pushed that monster up inside of me—"  
  
"That monster?" Sam asked, knowing he'd be sorry.  
  
"Strap-on. Had to be four inches around, nine inches long, had this sweet little head on it, just like the real thing."  
  
Silence.  
  
Again Dean popped up from behind the seat, his face unreadable in the dark. "Too much information?"  
  
"Let's talk about something else. What's your favorite car in a movie?" But as soon as the words were out, Sam knew he'd lost the game. It was his tone. He always got caught in lies because of his tone. He should have sounded disgusted with sort of a laugh in his voice but instead it came out all – squick and once Dean heard squick – there was no letting go.  
  
"Sammy?" A wide smile in that single word. "You got a little shiver there, huh? Well, who knew?" Dean flopped back down – that and his chuckle rocking the car on its wheels. "So come on, man, give. Just you and me here in the dark, nobody has to know."  
  
"Give what?"  
  
"Up! So maybe you're not brave enough to get kinky with it, but you think about it, don't you? Come on." Dean dragged out the "ah" sound in "on" before finally biting it off at the end. "You're a Winchester male. You have kinky thoughts, it's a given, so give."  
  
Sam shifted. His knee bumped the steering wheel and not for the first time in his life he cursed being so tall. "Okay, so maybe I think about it." Words so very soft in the night.  
  
The rain picked up again, double time on the roof.   
  
"Tell me, Sammy. Trust me with your kinkiest fantasy."  
  
Silence. Rain on the roof and then, "You have to promise not to comment. And promise not to laugh. You have to be quiet the whole time until I'm finished."  
  
"You sound like the redhead on the slab."  
  
"See. None of that. No jokes. If I bare my soul to you, you have to promise not to make jokes."  
  
"You're going to bare your soul?"  
  
Sam sighed. "Okay, that was overly dramatic, but seriously, if I tell you, you have to be quiet."  
  
"Okay, quiet I promise." The soft sound of a zipper. "That was me zipping my lips."  
  
"That was you UN zipping your pants."  
  
"Yeah, well, if you're going to tell me a kinky story, I want to take advantage."  
  
"You're hopeless." Sam turned on his side and the car bounced and shook and the rain came down even harder until it sounded like it might punch through the window.   
  
"Come on, Sam. You got me curious here, not to mention a little horny. Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine."  
  
"I know yours."  
  
Sigh. "Tell me yours and I'll arrange to make it come true."  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
Dean kicked the back of the seat. "Now you're pissing me off. You can't tease and just walk away, only women are allowed to do that. You started this, now finish it. I want to hear your kinkiest fantasy. Now!"  
  
There was no way this was going to turn out well, but still Sam had the urge to tell it, to put it out there in the dark with the seat between them if only to get it out of his own head once and for all. "Okay. Shut up. And remember you asked for my kinkiest fantasy, not like my normal fantasies because I have plenty of normal fantasies about sex with women."  
  
He felt more than saw Dean pop up from behind the seat again. Frickin' Jack-in-the-box.  
  
"Wait. Your NORMAL fantasies are about WOMEN, meaning this KINKY fantasy is about something else?"  
  
"That's it, I'm not telling."  
  
Dean lunged over the seat and rammed his fist into Sam's side – not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make him flinch. Then he opened his fingers and grabbed flesh which tickled so Sam went from gasping to laughing to gasping for breath when Dean kept the pressure up. Sam tried to push him off but there was nowhere to go, no room for escape. The best he could do was get his long legs involved, using them to protect his vulnerable middle. But Dean had position and pounds over him, not to mention the affinity for fighting dirty so he got his hand between Sam's legs and there he found a surprise.   
  
"Shit! Thought you we were wearing Wanda's strap-on for a second but that's all you – isn't it?  
  
"Get off me, you pervert." Was what Sam said, but he squeezed his legs together and hooked his ankles over each other trapping Dean's hand right where it was.   
  
"You're breaking my wrist here," Dean complained.  
  
"You're breaking my heart," Sam shot back.   
  
"There's an opening in the church choir. Soprano section." Dean's free hand came around to make good the threat. Sam grabbed hold of his shirt then yanked dragging his brother nearly all the way into the front seat. It was all about balance and leverage. Sam opened his legs releasing Dean's wrist then shoved.  
  
Dean tumbled backward landing mostly on the floor.   
  
This time it was Sam who popped up over the front seat. "I told you to be quiet and behave."  
  
Dean groused and groaned as he pulled himself out of the wheel wells and on to the back seat. They caught each other's eye for a moment, actually saw expressions as a bolt of lightening lit up the car.   
  
There was a look on Sam's face the likes of which Dean had never seen before. Not brooding, not pouting, not frantic, not even his usual teasing smile. Something else. Something that made Dean's breath catch. "Now I gotta know."  
  
Sam's eyes narrowed. "Then lay down. I can't say it if you're looking at me."  
  
Obedient for likely the first time in their relationship, Dean lay back down on the seat, rearranged the jacket under his head then waited for Sam to disappear from sight before loosening his pants a little more.   
  
"Okay," Sam said softly, his voice rising up from the front seat. "So. . . I kinda had this. . . dream, once and it keeps coming into my head and it's like totally disgusting and I can't even believe I'm going to tell you."  
  
Silence.  
  
Dean bit his lip. This was a test. A test to see if he really could keep his mouth shut. Tough, but he had a feeling it would be worth it in the end so he bit even harder then slid his hand down inside his briefs.   
  
He heard the crunch of leather as Sam shifted on the front seat and he wondered if his brother was positioning himself the same way. There were a couple of years when they were both in high school where they had regularly jacked off to the sound of the other doing the same. Dean usually ran the show, talking between their beds at night, telling stories about some bimbette he'd banged under the bleachers or about the cheerleader fondling session he'd witnessed in the girl's locker room. He would talk and work himself up and Sam would get himself going all the while pretending that he wasn't interested and wasn't doing it – but twenty years of sleeping in the same room together made the signals pretty easy to read.  
  
Just like now.   
  
He recognized the hitch in Sam's breathing. The constant shifting as long legs tried to find their place.   
  
"It's like this. We're working a job. Chasing these cultists, just you and me and they catch us off guard, drag us out of our motel at night so we're just in t-shirts and shorts and it's kind of disorienting. They take us to this barn and it's cold and filthy and I'm scared but when I catch your eye, you're not. You're in control and making like it's going to be okay but I don't see how. I figure we're in real trouble and they're saying all these nasty things but I can't hear it because of the blood pounding in my ears."  
  
Okay, this would be the start of a nightmare even by Winchester standards but Sam's breath is still doing that hitching thing so whatever it is, it's turning him on….not doing a thing for Dean. . . he takes his hand out of his pants.   
  
"They pull me away from you. Then they drag me over to this. . . box and they push me down so I'm kneeling with my chest down across this thing and they tie my wrists to posts so my arms are out to the sides. I try to be brave, say something smart alecky like you do, but one of them shoves this rag in my mouth and ties it there with a piece of rope."  
  
Okay, that's something. Dean's hand goes back inside his pants, so careful not to make a single noise.  
  
"And then. . . " Sam sucks in a huge breath. "Then. . um. . . they pull off my shorts and I start to fight against the ropes because I know what they're going to do."  
  
Oh hell. Dean fights the urge to twist, knowing it would make the seat crunch and likely make Sam stop talking. He doesn't want Sam to stop talking.   
  
"I can hear you struggling, too. Cursing. They don't gag you. Just me. I don't know why. I can hear the scuffle coming closer. . . and then. . . they force you down on to your knees behind me."  
  
No, no, no – don't go there. Dean starts to stroke. His thigh muscles go taut lifting his ass off the seat. Quiet? How the hell can he stay quiet?  
  
"I can feel the warmth of you pressing up against me and at first you're cursing them and then you're whispering to me that it's going to be all right. And your voice is all rough and deep and. . . " Sam shifts. Sobs.   
  
Dean can't be quiet. He groans as he wrestles himself completely free from his jeans and briefs. Wishes he hadn't because Sam's not talking now and he wants to tell him to go on but he promised not to speak so he bites his lip and waits a painfully long time before Sam continues.  
  
"I'm still so scared and I force myself to believe that I'd rather it be you then one of them, but they're mocking us being brothers and that's how I know that they know the truth."  
  
Dean can't help himself. "What truth, Sammy?"  
  
"That I want you to do it," the last words of a drowning man. "That I've always wanted it and I know you never would unless they forced you. And even then I know it's killing you inside and I want to tell you it's okay, not to fight it but I can't form words with this gag in my mouth and it comes out in these moaning, aching kind of sounds. . . "  
  
Oh fuck. Fuck. Dean grips himself hard and it's like there's a cheese grater running over every nerve in his body.   
  
"They've got your hands tied behind your back so one of them has to position you but once the hand moves away, it's just all you and me and I'm holding my breath and I don't know how I could want something so much and hate it so much all at the same time. And then you lean into me, enter me. . . " A sniff, a gasp, more crunching of leather as legs and hips shift and rock. "It hurts and I cry out and I can feel your face against my back and feel tears because you think you're doing something so terrible to me." Sam's voice is scratchy and stuffy sounding and almost like hiccups the way he gasps between every few words. "And I just want to tell you it's okay. And all I can do is think it and hope that you get it. Because sometimes it's like that between us, we don't have to speak to each other to get it."  
  
Oh, I get it, Sammy. Hell, I get it. Dean tries to sit up some, to get more leverage but his hand is sweaty and it's suddenly so hot and close inside the car he can hardly breathe.  
  
"They make you fuck me."  
  
A mousetrap snapping down, forcing a cry from his own lips. Why the hell is this working? Why are these words driving him to the edge?  
  
"You try to go slow, to be careful but you can't help it and I'm making it worse because I'm pushing back, grinding my hips, urging you on and you think I'm struggling to get away but what I really want is deeper, harder. . . oh god, Dean!" Sam jerks, the car lurches, bounces on the shocks then the horn blares – a knee into the steering wheel. "FUCK!" More bouncing, moving.  
  
Dean flings his arm out, catches the front seat and pulls himself up to peer over the top.  
  
Sam's on his knees, top of his head pressed against the passenger side door, fists pounding on the seat as he gasps for air, for release, for some break in this storm he created.   
  
Dean wants to touch him but he's not sure if he should. His hand comes down on Sam's back. That startles him. He rears back to sitting on his heels and for an instant they're face to face.   
  
Face to face.  
  
But still a seat between them. Sam's hand shoots out and grabs Dean by the back of the neck and it's awkward and twisted but somehow he gets his mouth on Dean's mouth and the flood gates are open and everybody is going to drown.   
  
"Sammy," Dean mumbles when lips move down to his throat, then to his shoulder.   
  
"I just want you to touch me!" Sam spits the words out like they were poison. "And that's sick and wrong and disgusting."  
  
"No."  
  
Sam gets his arms up between them, shoves Dean away then curls up against the door fitting his impossibly long body into an impossibly small space.   
  
Dean falls back on to the seat and realizes he's come all over himself. It was just a game to pass the time, like license plates and twenty questions. But nothing is ever simple when you're a Winchester.   
  
How to fix this?  
  
Dean sucks in a huge breath of stale, sex scented air. Wills his heart rate to slow. Then he opens the car door and steps out into what is now a gentle rain. It feels good on his face, cool drops on his overheated body. He goes around to the back of the car, opens the trunk and locates his duffel. He changes his jeans right there on the side of the road. He strips off his t-shirt too and changes that just because then lets the rain wash the sweat out of his hair.   
  
It would be easy to tell Sam that it is wrong. That it's fine as a fantasy but it can't ever be made real but Dean knows better. Knows that he's been fighting this same demon for far too long. Part of the Winchester curse. The women they love all die so what can they do but look to each other for comfort. Not so subtle irony, that the entity who took their mother, who forced them to become lonely hunters, also filled them with this sinful need.   
  
Dean laughs under his breath. The chief of saints will be the loudest in declaring that he is the chief of sinners.   
  
Dean opens Sam's duffel bag. Takes out a pair of sweats and a long sleeve shirt. He closes the trunk, opens the passenger side front door then hand Sam the clothes.  
  
"Change. You'll feel better." Then he walks away from the car, aware that the rain is picking up yet again.   
  
Dean walks down the slope at the side of the road, guided only by a mere shaft of moonlight. He relieves himself against a tree, wishes he were a smoker so he'd have something to do with his hands. His legs ache and he thinks about sitting on the ground but then these jeans will be messed up and they're the last clean pair. He turns to head back to the car and Sam is standing there.  
  
"Do you hate me?"  
  
"No. Never. Caught me off guard, that's all. I didn't know you felt it. I thought it was only me."  
  
A questioning frown crosses Sam's face. He's not sure he understands.   
  
Dean closes the gap between them then thunder makes them both start. "It got worse when you went away to college. Before that I could make do with the wrestling games and patching each other up after a hunt and watching you sleep." Dean lifts his hand toward Sam's cheek but lets it fall away short of contact. "I love watching you sleep. There's so much peace there –was – before I dragged you back."  
  
"That's not your—"  
  
Dean holds up his hand, stops Sam mid-sentence. "Complicated enough already. I've always wanted to touch you, Sam. For as long as I can remember. And I think that maybe I made you feel it too in that way we talk without talking, you know?"  
  
Sam nods.  
  
"That's why it was good when you went away to school. Gave you a chance to be normal. I really did want that for you. Honest. But when you were gone. . " Dean closes his eyes, lets it wash over him. "I ached so bad. Not able to sneak in a smack on the head or hug around the neck. No way to watch you sleep. I missed watching you sleep."  
  
The rain comes down in bucketfuls and the clean clothes they just put on are now soaked. They run back to the car. They both climb into the back seat and Dean doesn't even think about complaining about the water on his upholstery.   
  
"What are we going to do?" Sam asks, small, weak frighten Sam not the Sam that's been traveling with his brother for months now.   
  
"What do you want to do?"  
  
Sam scrunches his shoulders to his ears. "I want to feel. Good. Cared for. Even the aching need. I want that wholeness, that can't wait to get you alone and kiss you feeling that is so so good. I just want to feel loved."  
  
Dean pulls Sam to him, they bump shoulders then Sam keeps going until his head is resting on Dean's lap. Another awkward position, body twisted, feet jammed down under the front seat, but it doesn't matter.   
  
Dean sighs, strokes the bangs out of Sam's eyes. This is so hard. He so doesn't want to be wrong. "We're already so screwed up, the last thing I want to do is add another twist."  
  
Sam laughs and it creates a funny little vibration in Dean's stomach.   
  
"But I guess we can try it. See how it. . . is. But if I think it's hurting you, emotionally, I mean, I'm going to stop it." God damn it he doesn't know how but he knows it's his place, that he's the one who has to be strong. "And if I do, you'll know it's not because I don't want to but because I'm here to look out for you, first and always."  
  
"You won't have to stop it. You'll see, Dean. It's going to make us stronger."  
  
Or give us another weakness to exploit.   
  
"I hope so. We could do with a few superpowers about now." Dean slouches down as far as he can in the tight space, feels his wet shirt drag against the upholstery. His right arm finds a place around Sam's waist, his left hand still brushing at damp bangs. They both close their eyes and listen to the rain – soft again, a sweet rhythm on the roof.   
  
And there is no longer a seat between them.   
  
The End


End file.
